


I'll Know My Name As It's Called Again

by pukeandcry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, Bodyswap, M/M, Porn, Tour Fic, With Feelings?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis wakes up in Harry's body. This is a problem for several reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Know My Name As It's Called Again

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOPS I GOT OBSESSED WITH BODYSWAP.

His first instinct, when he realizes what’s happened, is to scream.

He’s in his own bed. Or, not his _own_ , but at least the one he’d gone to sleep in, at the back of the bus, wrapped in a blanket he’d filched from Niall’s bunk, his laptop left open and shoved to the side of the mattress. The same sight he’s seen most nights for the last month, the same place he wakes up more often than not.

That’s the only thing that seems to be as it should be, though. It’s barely half a minute between when he wakes, feeling inexplicably disoriented -- a bit like he’s woken up in a different set of clothes than the ones he’d gone to sleep in -- and the moment when he raises his hand to rub at his mouth, jolting back suddenly when his vision clear enough to see it.

Not his hand. Not his stupid silver rings. Definitely not his tattoo at the juncture where his thumb meets his index finger. Or _not_ his thumb and index finger, as it were.

So, yeah, his instinct is to scream.

He doesn’t, though. He bites down on the wave of panic instead, hard enough that his teeth clack together with an almost metallic twinge. Distantly, he thinks he deserves some credit for his restraint -- or at least he would if he could think of anyone to tell that would believe him.

So he bites down on the shriek before it bubbles out of him, and can’t even count it as a success, because nothing here, not one single thing, can be made into something good. Not when they aren’t his own teeth snapping together.

“What the fuck,” he whispers quietly after a long moment. He waves his hand, like maybe he can shake this away, like a bad case of pins and needles, but nothing happens. His hand isn’t going back to normal. The misplaced feeling in his legs and his chest isn’t dissipating. “What the _fuck_ ,” he tries again, going for something louder. It barely comes out at all, only a rasp in the stillness around him.

He jerks out of bed with a sudden frantic momentum, knocking his laptop off as he nearly topples over. His limbs are suddenly too long, and he trips over his stolen blanket as he stumbles towards the front of the bus with his pulse swimming madly in his ears.

The rest of the bus is quiet, which strikes Louis as almost absurd, given how loud the rush of blood in his head is getting to be. _This is a dream_ , he tells himself, drawing in a rattling breath. _This is a dream and you’re going to wake up now_.

He doesn’t wake up. His stumbles into the toilet, locking the door behind him as he braces his hands on the cramped edge of the sink, trying to force himself to look up at the mirror.

 _It won’t be what you think_ , he tells himself. _Just look up and it’ll all be normal._

It takes several minutes before he works up to it, and when he does, his knees nearly give out.

For an instant, the worst, most dizzying part is how familiar Harry’s face is looking back at him, sleep-soft around the edges even as his eyes go wide and panicked. That part’s new, because Harry does a lot of things, but panicking -- outwardly, at least -- is rarely one of them. But it’s still Harry’s face all the same, despite the way it’s twisting into something foreign, the same rumpled hair and pale eyes, bitten lips red and slack. It’s very nearly impossible to believe that he’s looking at a mirror, rather than Harry himself. Maybe this is -- maybe it’s a weird prank, and they’ve somehow replaced the mirror with clear glass? Maybe Harry’s standing on the other side with the rest of the lads, ready to laugh at Louis for being such a gullible prat. He’s not sure how that would even work, because it’s just the hotel car park and empty air on the other side of the wall, but there must be a way, if…

He stops himself from thinking it, though, because there’s no point in tempting himself with a rationalization he can’t quite make himself believe. Instead he slowly raises one hand -- one of Harry’s hands -- up to his face. The reflection moves with him, slow and tentative, until it’s prodding at its cheek as well, then its mouth, and then twisting its finger in its hair, yanking sharp.

The pain when he pulls on his hair is what snaps him out of it, sending him careening out of the toilet with a lurch and into the quiet corridor.

Zayn’s asleep in his bunk, the curtain left partway open, and Louis pauses outside of it, trying to keep... whoever’s hand it is that he’s got from shaking.

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do right now. Is he meant to call someone? The police? Is he meant to say anything at all? Or will that inevitably get him carted off to some sort of institution? He hasn’t any idea, but he knows he has to do _something_ , because there’s a mad energy coursing through him. He’s got to do something, or else he really will scream.

He leans in, maneuvering Harry’s long arm with a shaky cautiousness, and jabs Zayn harshly in the ribs with a finger.

He grunts, his face rearranging into a frown, but doesn’t open his eyes. Louis only jabs again harder.

“What?” Zayn asks shortly when he finally peels one eye open. “What’re you doing here?”

“What room is Harry in?” Louis demands. The feel of his voice -- of _Harry’s_ voice -- rumbling out of him properly, not just a whisper this time, is almost as startling as the first realization. He’d expected to hear his own, he realizes, and it almost makes him want to laugh in a frantic, hysterical way -- both his own words coming out in Harry’s voice and the fact that he’d _expected_ anything about this at all.

“‘S this a prank, Haz?” Zayn mumbles. “Too early for pranks, y’twat.”

“What -- what room am _I_ in,” he grits out. It doesn’t even cross his mind to try and explain, because Zayn won’t be awake enough to hear it anyway, and really, what would he even say? The only person he wants to speak with right now is Harry, because this is surely his fault, somehow. He must’ve done -- _something_ , and Louis can’t think of doing anything, now, besides shouting at him until he explains this all.

Zayn doesn’t answer, just frowns again and yanks the curtain of his bunk shut, leaving Louis alone in a pair of joggers that are suddenly an inch too short for him.

-

Paul texts him Harry’s room number, eventually, prefacing it with a lot of questions that Louis doesn’t bother to answer, including what he plans to do with that information, and why he’s up so early. Louis hadn’t realized it _was_ early, but when he checks his mobile, he sees it is, not quite seven yet. They’ve an off day, so there’s really no reason for anyone to be awake yet, and it’s not like he’s generally an early riser, but the idea of crawling back into bed for a few hours more sleep when he’s in the _wrong fucking body_ is nearly laughable.

Nearly.

It’s gray and quiet as he crosses the car park towards the lobby, walking as quickly as he can without seeming like he’s about to burst into a loping run. He already feels conspicuous, and that seems like it’d be a suspicious-looking thing to do. And anyway, he’s not sure he can make Harry’s legs work properly enough to run without falling over. They’re too long, and don’t move precisely the way he wants them to when he walks. There’s a tight twinge in his back, too, that makes him want to hunch his shoulders, any by the time he makes it to the lobby, they’re drawn up near his ears, the hood of his sweatshirt tugged over his new curls.

Harry’s face stares back at him from the inside of the mirrored lift, pinched into an unfamiliar scowl. The cuffs of his hoodie won’t reach when he idly tries to tug them over his hands.

Harry’s surely still asleep this early, he thinks as he gets off the lift, but at the moment Louis couldn’t give a fuck. He kicks sharply at the bottom of Harry’s door once he finds it, tucked away the end of a corridor, only held back from pounding on it as loudly as possible with both fists by the fact that it’d probably wake others. Possibly more than ever before, he doesn’t want an audience right now.

There’s no answer, so Louis kicks again, harder, and then raps his knuckles against the door erratically. If Harry’s fucked off somewhere, or worse, pulled someone and stayed the night somewhere else… well. Louis has no idea what then.

He has no idea what he expects to find if Harry _is_ in, either -- whether Harry will look exactly the same, just suddenly in duplicate, or if… if he’s somehow got Louis’ body, the result of some horrifying cosmic trade-off.

The thought of Harry loosed somewhere with his body -- possibly waking up in bed with another person, suddenly in Louis’ skin, but even alone, sleeping just on the other side of the door -- makes him terrified and furious in equal parts, so much so that it’s hard to find his breath.

After the third knock -- he’s getting frantic, now, and people will really be woken if he goes on much longer -- he hears a rustling inside the door, and the relief that washes over him is palpable.

“Open the door, Harry,” he hisses as loudly as he dares. “Open the bloody _door_ \--”

The door opens, then, and there he is -- himself, Louis, or at least his face, peering around the crack of the door with a sleepy expression, dressed in nothing but a pair of tiny gray pants.

The door opens a bit wider. Louis watches his own face go wide with surprise, then twist into something like horror, and then without warning, the door shuts in his face.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis nearly shouts, tempted to knock the bloody thing in. Maybe Harry’s body could, now, with all his unexpected muscles and unfamiliar stamina. He’s tempted to punch the door like he’s seen Harry do when he’s boxing with Mark during workouts, just to see if it splinters like the padded bags never do.

And if it breaks Harry’s bloody hand in the process, then maybe that’ll teach him not to shut the door in Louis’ face. His own face. Whatever.

“Open up you twat, I can’t just _stand out here_ like this,” he hisses. Harry’s voice is slower, a lower register, and even as he says it himself, Louis marvels a bit at how threatening it sounds in this new voice. He’s never heard Harry sound like _this_ , and it makes him wonder at all the other things that Harry might do, if he was inclined, but holds himself back from.

On the other side of the door, there’s a wheezing sound, and it takes him a moment before Louis recognizes it -- the sound of his own laughter.

“Oh my God,” his voice says, cracking in something halfway between delight and horror. “Oh, fuck. How’re you doing this?”

“Let me _in_ ,” Louis repeats.

The door creaks open again, and for a second, Louis can’t bear to walk through it, because Harry’s just inside it, which means crossing in front of his own self, double over just inside the doorway in hysteric laughter.

“Stop it,” he snaps, snapping out of it and moving inside, locking the door behind him with both the deadbolt and chain.

“This is the weirdest dream,” Harry laughs. He’s bent over with his hands on his knees, face going red, and Louis thinks he honestly might fall over.

“What did you _do_?” Louis demands.

“What did _I_ do?” Harry repeats in Louis’ voice. His eyes are wet from laughing, now, except there’s nothing particularly humorous about his expression even as he heaves with it. “How is this something I’d have done? Oh my God.” He does sit down, then, just inside the shut door, tumbling backwards onto his arse with a thud. 

“Get up, idiot,” Louis snaps, reaching down a hand impatiently to yank him up. They’re not going to fix this on the bleeding _floor_ , he knows that much. 

Harry looks up at him, a helpless, shocked half-smile on his face that Louis doesn’t think he’s ever made himself. It makes him suppress a shudder, seeing his own face suddenly so unfamiliar. 

Harry reaches up after a moment, taking Louis’ hand, but not leveraging himself up. Instead he looks at them, their two hands, grasping at each other in a way that should be familiar, but is suddenly almost grotesque with how wrong it is. 

Louis feels a noise burble out of himself before he can stop it, a single, sharp exhalation of laughter. 

“Oh God,” he says helplessly. He thinks about dropping Harry’s hand, his _own_ hand, but he’s suddenly fascinated by it, the small, safe way its folded into his. 

_Is this how it’s always been?_ he wonders. _How it’s always looked to Harry?_

He snatches his hand away, because it’s suddenly too much. 

He stalks into the hotel room instead, crossing his arms as he goes. Harry’s shit is everywhere, a flood of scarves and plaid shirts cascading out of his open suitcase balanced precariously on an armchair. There’s a pair of black pants on the floor and he nearly steps on them as he goes to the window, peering around the curtains as he holds them back with one finger. He can’t look at Harry, not like this, so he looks at the car park instead, and the way the sun is starting to rise, gray and pink. It feels like he’s looking at it from too far up, the height suddenly dizzying. 

When he finally turns back to the room, Harry’s dragged himself off the floor, and is struggling to pull a pair of sweatpants on. 

“Tell me how you did this,” Louis says. 

“Lou,” Harry says. The voice doesn’t suit him, and it makes Louis wince. “Dunno how you think this is something _I’ve_ managed to do, like. ‘M’not that good.” He holds out one of his hands in front of him, then, turning it over and peering at it intently. “Jesus. This is…” 

“Impossible,” Louis snaps. 

Harry cocks his head at him. “Mad, I was gonna say,” he clarifies slowly. He looks perplexed, but he doesn’t seem as horrified as Louis thinks he ought to, and it galls him. “Christ. I’m you.” 

“No you bloody well aren’t,” Louis says, because that’s just -- that’s too much. “You aren’t _me_. We just got… I dunno. Switched around.” 

Harry snorts out a laugh. “Switched around,” he repeats. “Okay.” 

“Well I don’t know!” Louis shouts, throwing his hands up. He nearly knocks over a lamp, and maddeningly, feels himself flush, self-conscious of how inexpert he is at navigating this new body. 

Harry shrugs at him. He’s still peering at his hand, and the tattoos on his forearm. Louis can’t imagine why, because it’s not like Harry hasn’t _seen_ them, hasn’t seen them every bloody day for the last four months. Anyway, Louis finds he can hardly bring himself to glance down at his own alien body, because it’s clearly the wrong skin. He knows he oughtn’t be in it; he doesn’t want to look any closer than he needs to. 

But Harry is idly running a hand over his bare stomach, now, and Louis wants to bat it away, because that’s not _his_ to touch like that anymore. He knows how it’ll sound if he says it, though, so once again, he stays quiet. 

“So what do we do?” he asks instead. “Like -- should we tell Paul or something? The lads?” 

Harry just blinks. “Why?” 

Louis closes his eyes for a moment and breathes out of his nose, grasping for patience. “So they can help us fix this, maybe?” 

Harry pulls a skeptical face at him. “But, like. What’ll we tell them? ‘Oh, hi, it’s actually me, Harry, except I’m in Louis’ body, and he’s in mine.’ C’mon, they’ll think we’re just being stupid. It sounds like a prank. A stupid one.” 

Louis scowls. “Well there’s got to be a way. Like, maybe you can tell Paul to ask you something I wouldn’t know, to like… prove it, or something…” 

He can scarcely finish the sentence, and the smile Harry gives him is suddenly sickening familiar, even on the wrong face. “There’s a flaw in that plan, mate.” 

It sounds like an apology, the way he says it. 

“What do we do now, then?” Louis asks. He hates how helpless it sounds, but suddenly that’s all he feels, and he has to sit down on the edge of the bed, because his knees feel wrong again. 

“Haven’t got anything to do today,” Harry reasons slowly. “We can just, like, tell everyone we’re staying in? Just the two of us, like, while we figure it out.” 

Something brittle splinters in Louis’ chest at that. “Harry,” he starts slowly. “That’s…” 

What he doesn’t want to say is that that would sound more suspicious than anything, because it’s… because that’s not the sort of thing they do. Not now, at least. It’s awful to think, and it’s worse thinking about the fact that the list of things he can’t do anymore is just that much longer. Only this time it’s not an agent telling him he can’t swear in anymore interviews, or security telling him he’s supposed to stay in at night. It’s a limit he’s made for himself all on his own. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, his face shuttering, wiping blank. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Maybe we could just… y’know. Pretend to be each other?” Louis suggests. It makes him uncomfortable just thinking about it, though. Mostly because he doesn’t think they’d be able to pull it off. 

Harry just twists his mouth around skeptically again, until Louis says, “Yeah, all right, never mind.” 

Eventually Harry crosses to sit on the opposite edge of the bed. It’s truly the strangest thing Louis’ ever seen, watching his own body move on its own, someone else at the controls, occupying it so much differently than he does. He doesn’t look taller, not with Harry inside him, but he somehow seems it anyway, seems lighter and unmoored, making less of an impact when he steps carelessly across the floor and folds down to sit. 

“Maybe we can tell Paul we’re sick,” Louis says eventually. “Like… stomach bug or something. If we’re contagious, everyone’ll have to leave us be.” 

It’s not the best idea, but Harry just shrugs, so Louis pulls out his mobile and shoots off a text to Paul. It’s flimsy -- he’s been sick all morning, and Harry is too, and they’re in Harry’s room and no one should bother them -- but he turns off his mobile when he’s done, and thinks it’ll have to do. 

“Okay,” he says. Harry leans back on the bed, putting his hands behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. Louis is mesmerized, a bit, by the stretch of his own bare skin, the way his stomach curves and his collar bones jut out. He wonders if he can touch, just to see what it’s like, and then wants to laugh, because he thinks the answer is no. He can’t even touch _himself_ now, because Harry’s too deep under his skin, and if that’s not at least a little bit funny, he thinks he might wind up sick. 

“So what do we do now?” he asks. 

Harry turns his head to blink at him, slow and deliberately like he always does, and then shrugs again. He closes his eyes, but then pats the space on the mattress next to him. 

“You could lie down,” he murmurs, eyes still shut. “It’s bloody early.” 

\- 

Louis doesn’t sleep, but he does lie down beside Harry eventually, despite how he tells himself he won’t. He doesn’t suspect Harry’s asleep either, because his breath is too steady, and he’s holding himself too still; when Harry sleeps, he snuffles and sprawls and kicks, and now, he’s placid as a pond. He does pull his hand away to make room for Louis, folding it over his belly, but that’s the only movement from him for the next half hour. 

Louis is almost impressed that Harry can hold himself still for so long, not least of all in Louis’ body, which scarcely knows how to be still itself. But he does, somehow, and even though Louis wants to slap at him until he wakes up and helps him figure out how to fix this, instead he winds up folding himself down next to Harry, hardly minutes after Harry shuts his eyes. 

He doesn’t touch him, careful to stay on the right side of the mattress. He kicks Harry’s long legs out, and they nearly reach the end of the bed. He unzips his hoodie, pulling it partway down his shoulders, and runs the pads of his fingers over his skin, over _Harry’s_ skin, where it peeks out from under his vest. It feels illicit, because this is exactly what isn’t allowed anymore, but -- but maybe he deserves it. He traces the ship on his bicep, and the unfamiliar knot of muscles underneath it. He isn’t used to being so broad, and he flexes his shoulders carefully, unfolding them one at a time like wings. 

He curls his toes, bends his knees, and winces at the twinge in his back. There are so many parts of Harry’s body that move differently than his own, even if just in minute ways, and even though he’s still not sure he can stand to look at himself properly, he finds he wants to feel them all the same, figure out how to bend and shift this new frame. 

He carries on until there’s nothing left to try, and settles for cracking Harry’s knuckles one at a time, letting the unfamiliar pop resonate up his arm with each finger. 

When he’s done with them all, Harry reaches over, eyes still shut, placing his own now-small hand on Louis’, stilling it against the mattress. He doesn’t say anything, but Louis sees the barest hint of a smile on Harry’s lips, and then Louis closes his own eyes, and tries to be still. 

\- 

It’s later when Louis opens his eyes again, although he’s still not sure he’s slept. He’d almost drifted off a few times, and each time he’d jerked awake just before he was properly asleep, like he’d tumbled off a cliff, a new wave of panic cresting inside him. 

But Harry’s hand is steady as an anchor, and he keeps it on Louis’ -- not holding it, just resting on top of it -- until Louis is finally sure he’s awake again, opening his eyes when he feels Harry rising from the bed. 

“Hi,” he says, crossing to open the curtains a bit. Proper sunlight shines in when he does, the dim gray morning replaced by something blazing and bright. 

“Shut those,” Louis says, squinting against the light when it falls in his eyes. “‘S’too bright.” 

Harry shrugs, and leaves them open an inch. 

“Come up with any solutions?” he asks Louis slowly, stretching one arm up and over his head. “To this whole… thing.” He gestures uselessly between them, and Louis scowls. 

“No,” he snaps, suddenly irritated again. “Have you?” 

Harry just shakes his head. “But it’s not so bad, is it?” he asks. The question makes Louis’ skin feel too small, and he hates the way his frustration with Harry is so familiar, but it is. 

“Explain to me how it’s not,” he says carefully, pinching the bridge of his nose so he doesn’t shout. 

“Well,” Harry says, standing resolutely at the foot of the bed. “You could be in, like, Paul’s body now, for starters. Or like, a teenage girl’s. Out of all the people in the world we could’ve swapped with, it’s probably not the worst, y’know. Like this.” 

“I,” Louis starts, but then finds he doesn’t quite know how to deny that like he wants to. “Maybe,” he concedes. 

Harry nods, sagely, and Louis snorts a laugh despite himself, because it’s such a Harry-ish thing that he recognizes it straight off, even on his own face, which can’t quite pull it off. 

“C’mon,” Harry says, nodding at the sofa across the room. “We can watch a movie.” 

Louis doesn’t want to watch a movie -- he wants to _do_ something to fix this, especially now, feeling like he’s wasted time just lying about with Harry in bed. But maddeningly, he still hasn’t any clue what that something might be. 

So maybe watching a movie is the best he can do right now. 

He curls up on the opposite side of the sofa while Harry flips through channels, settling on something with aliens after a moment. The volume is low, barely a murmur, and Louis doesn’t bother trying to follow it. He’s distracted trying to figure out how to sit, how to arrange Harry’s long legs and his elbows. He’s still conspicuously aware of how he’s still wearing his own clothes, too short in the wrists and the ankles now, and even more so, how Harry’s half naked, the too-big pair of sweatpants he’d pulled on riding low on his hips. 

Louis’ hips. 

As the aliens start invading on screen, Harry moves his hands to his bare waist, idly pressing them into the skin, his thumb stroking over the curve of his stomach. It makes Louis’ hands twitch, seeing Harry touch his body like that, soft and thoughtless like he’s got a right to. He hasn’t, not for a while. 

“You’re thinner,” Harry says quietly after a moment. “I mean, I’d realized, but…” He looks down at his waist, his stomach, the sprawl of his small hands there like he’s seeing his body -- Louis’ body -- for the first time all over again. 

Louis shrugs, uncomfortable. “Training for football, I suppose. And then I was sick, so. Y’know.” 

He finds he doesn’t want to talk about it, the ways they’ve changed, both of them, and the way their bodies are so unfamiliar all of a sudden. 

“Y’look nice,” Harry says softly, eyes still down. “But you always did, so.” 

“Harry,” Louis says warningly. 

“Just saying.” Louis can see Harry force himself to shift out of the quiet way he’s speaking, a too-big, insincere smile appearing on his face, the one that’s meant to be placating and neutral. After a moment, it drifts away again, and his face relaxes into something softer. 

They sit silently as the movie plays. Harry’s hand keeps stroking his stomach softly, and then gradually, gradually trails lower, catching at the curve of his hip. It makes Louis’ heart stutter, and he tells himself it’s just frustration -- with Harry, with the universe, with this whole bloody incomprehensible situation -- but it’s something more than that; the twin thrill of Harry touching himself and touching Louis all at once. Those are exactly the sort of things he’s not allowed to want anymore. 

There’s something about it, though, the sight of his own body, touching itself, and yet still undeniably _Harry_. Harry is very much the one moving his hand across the plane of Louis’ stomach, up to his collarbone and back down again as slow as honey. It’s disorienting and maddening, and Louis’ pulse races at the sight of it. 

He tries not to watch, but settles for at least not being too obvious about it. He’s not sure how well it comes off, but he tries all the same. 

Harry’s hand dips lower, gripping his hip through the sweatpants, his toes curling where they’re propped up on the coffee table in front of them. He bites his lip, and Louis knows Harry can tell he’s watching, even if Harry’s still looking straight ahead at the television. Slowly, Harry thumbs the waistband of his sweatpants, hesitant like he’s waiting for Louis to tell him to stop. 

“Harry,” he warns. He knows he should, should tell him to knock it off, but he can’t quite make himself, and hopes Harry will understand what he means anyway. 

“Just… looking,” Harry says, shameless. He pulls at his sweatpants gently, his gray pants going with them, and Louis sees a flash of the skin on his own hip as Harry’s hand presses inside, holding the elastic away from him and staring intently. 

“At my cock?” Louis forces himself to ask, trying to keep his voice steady and doing a fair job of it. 

“I think technically it’s mine now,” Harry says with a slow grin. 

“You’ve seen it,” Louis says, clipped. “Leave it alone.” 

“Not from this angle.” 

“ _Harry_ ,” he says. His voice goes hoarse, and he feels the tips of his ears burn. 

“D’you want me to stop?” Harry asks. 

Louis tries to say yes, and settles for silence when he can’t. 

The lump of Harry’s hand travels further down his sweatpants, scraping along the top of his thigh before coming to rest at his groin for a moment. It moves again, then, tracing the edge of his hips and his thighs, mapping out the curve there where a narrow, straight line ought to be. He smiles all the while, softly, still looking forward, still touching. 

“M’gonna have a shower,” he murmurs eventually, and that’s what snaps Louis out of the daze he’s in. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. The sensation of curly hair moving when he does throws him off all over again, and he tries to focus. “Not leaving you alone with -- me. My body. God knows what you’ll do with it.” 

Harry shrugs, flicking off the television and rising from the sofa. “So come supervise, then,” he says, like it’s that easy, and walks into the toilet, shoving his sweatpants and pants down when he’s just inside the doorway. 

Louis sits there, blinking for a long moment before standing shakily to follow him. 

The toilet is all white tile and chrome, and Harry has the shower going by the time Louis gets there, already starting to billow steam over the top of the glass door. He’s standing placidly in front of the mirror, running a hand over his collarbone again, naked. Louis feels like he ought to look away, and refuses to do so just on principle. It’s _his_ body, after all -- his skin prickling into goosebumps, his tattoos illuminated in the soft light, his cock lying against his thigh. He refuses to feel uncomfortable about that. 

Harry seems perfectly comfortable himself, anyway, just stands there calmly as he waits for the shower to heat up to scalding, the way he likes it. He doesn’t even bother to look at Louis besides a passing glance, a curving smile, before he goes back to admiring himself in the mirror. As a practice, it’s not unfamiliar, because it’s impossible to deny that Harry’s pleased with the sight of himself most of the time, but it’s suddenly different, because it’s _Louis’_ reflection he’s looking at like that, and that’s enough to set Louis’ borrowed skin prickling with something that’s not quite completely unease. 

“Hands above the waist,” Louis says when Harry’s hand strays far enough down to graze his cock. He desperately wants it to come out aloof and unbothered, but it’s mostly just desperate, full stop. 

Harry just shrugs, letting his hand drift away like it’d been his own idea, and then turns on his heel to step into the cavernous shower. 

If Louis had thought he’d felt out of place in Harry’s skin before, it’s that much worse when he finds himself standing there uselessly in a hotel toilet, watching while Harry showers. Louis props his arse against the sink, and for a moment he’s distracted by marveling at how his feet don’t dangle an inch off the ground like he’d expected them to, planted firmly on the tile floor instead. It distracts him enough that when he looks up again and sees Harry, standing with his head tipped forward under the shower spray and his eyes shut peacefully, his gut twists all over again. 

Louis hasn’t cut his hair in what seems like ages -- more out of inertia than anything else -- and it’s only now, looking at from outside himself, that he realizes how long it’s gotten. It hangs over Harry’s eyes in wet strands, one slicked down his nose. 

“‘S’weird with you just watching,” Harry tells him, raising his voice over the shower and lifting his head to look at Louis through the glass door. 

Louis snorts. “Yeah. That’s the weird part here, Harry.” 

Harry smiles at him, then, a real smile, all charm. “It is. Showering with an audience. Very unnatural.” 

Louis bites on the inside of his cheek, and before he can stop himself, says “‘s’hardly the first time I’ve seen you shower, idiot.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly, refusing to let the smile drop. “Except you were usually in here with me, not watching like a lech from the sink.” 

Louis has no idea what to say to that, and surprises himself by laughing. He’s not wrong, anyway. 

“Anyway, it’s a bit weirder being all… y’know. Flipped.” Harry gestures lazily between the two of them, nearly knocking over a bottle of shampoo. “Like, seeing your cock from an outsider’s perspective.” 

He cants his hips towards Louis, then, shameless, shaking so his cock slaps wetly from side to side, a grin on his face that’s far too pleased with itself. “Weird, innit?” 

“If you’re trying to scare me with my own dick, mate, I’ve got bad news for you,” Louis says. “We’re pretty well acquainted.” 

Harry carries on smiling, and Louis hates that he still recognizes that expression, lazy and hungry all at once, even now, even on the wrong body. Even worse, he hates how he can feel himself reacting to it. 

“Yeah, well, so’re we,” Harry drawls. 

He quirks an eyebrow at Louis like he’s daring him to tell him to stop, and then puts his hand back on his cock, cupping it gently before circling it with his fingers, just holding them there for a long moment. 

Louis means to protest. He really, really means to. But he can _see_ his own cock getting hard under Harry’s hand, now, and even more distracting, can feel himself starting to get hard in his trackies too. In Harry’s body. The thought that he’s got Harry’s body, now, his _cock_ , that he could shove down his trackies and wank off right now, watching Harry’s lovely skin flush red the way it does when he comes, is -- a lot. He almost groans, picturing it, and feels himself biting his lip the way Harry always used to. Always does. 

He rests his hands on the tops of his thighs, instead, gripping fiercely, staring at the sprawl of Harry’s elegant fingers there. 

“Lou,” Harry says from the shower, snapping his attention back to him. “C’mon. C’mere, it’s… just c’mere.” 

Louis shakes his head, but in the next moment he’s pulling off his hoodie and the rest of his too-small clothes. He leaves them in a heap next to Harry’s and is pushing open the glass shower doors before he remembers making the decision. 

“Hi,” Harry says quietly, shifting to make room for him. There’s not much, and it’s so bloody hot, especially with just an inch between them, but Louis sighs with something like happiness all the same. At least now that he’s here, at least now that he suspects what will come next, he can stop trying to pretend that he doesn’t want it to. 

Harry’s worked himself up properly already, it seems, cheeks pink and his cock hard, and Louis is startled to realize how badly he wants to reach out and touch him. Harry’s hand is gripping the base of his cock in a lazy circle, not moving much at all, just staying there like he can’t help but touch. 

“Look at you,” Harry says quietly, gazing down at his body. The hand that’s not on his cock goes back to tracing his stomach, almost reverentially. Harry’s not smiling anymore, just staring, mostly at himself, with something soft and wanting on his face. 

“Always been so fit,” he continues quietly, the hand on his cock starting to move slowly. 

Louis closes his eyes for a moment, because it’s a lot. He desperately wants to touch his own cock, because there’s no point in pretending he isn’t hard as well, and more than that, it’s _Harry’s_ cock, anyway. He’s always been more than a bit easy for it. 

“Shut up,” he says instead. “You’re the one -- it’s you, in all the gossip rags, like, Mr. Young Fit Topless Slag of the year. You know everyone wants you, Haz.” 

Harry makes a noise, and Louis doesn’t know if it’s a disagreement or just a general wanking-off sound -- because Harry is, now, properly wanking himself with his teeth clamped down on his bottom lip, staring up at Louis through his half-shut eyelids. But then Harry moves his hand away, his cock slapping up against his stomach wetly, and he leverages Louis in by the hips so fiercely that they both nearly go head over arse on the slippery tile. 

“Everyone?” he asks quietly, tilting his head up to look Louis in the eyes now. They’re so tight their cocks are pressed up against each other, trapped between their bodies, but all Louis can think about is how strange it is to be looking _down_ at Harry, and how he’s looking at his own eyes but he can still recognize Harry behind them clear as day. 

“Everyone,” Louis agrees, barely above a whisper. 

“Gonna kiss you now,” Harry tells him, and then he does. 

This, Louis thinks, as he curls into the kiss -- this he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget how to do. Not even now, not with everything hanging heavily over them, not even in the wrong fucking bodies -- he suspects he’ll never forget how to kiss Harry, and the irreproducible way it seems to fill him with something light and airless from tip to toes every time. 

Harry whines into his mouth, and tightens his grip on his hips, holding them as close as he can. Louis has to wind an arm around the soft curve of Harry’s waist to hold himself up, because the slip-slide of Harry’s cock against his, the water trickling between them and the steam and Harry’s tongue and _everything_ make him want to sit down hard. 

But Harry hangs onto him for dear life, rocking their hips together and sliding his tongue into Louis’ mouth, and he’s so caught up in the feel of _Harry, again, finally,_ that the absolute weirdness -- the sheer mechanics of essentially frotting up against his own fucking _body_ \-- seem secondary at best. 

Harry pulls away, eventually, mouth pink, his tongue darting out to lick over his lips. “Can -- Lou, is it all right if…” He moves to sink down to his knees, but Louis grabs him under the armpit, hauling him back upright. 

“Hold on, okay?” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss him at the edge of his mouth. “Let me at least wash your filthy hair first.” 

Harry groans, huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t protest as Louis diligently shampoos his hair twice. 

It’s nearly too much, too domestic, too much like what they’d done before -- just the two of them, sharing something as simple as passing a bottle of shampoo, making room for each other to take turns under the spray, grazing hips with their fingertips. 

Louis is fairly sure he can guess what’ll happen when they’re done showering, and he wants it to, almost madly, but he also needs a moment to breathe, and even if just this is nearly choking him in an entirely new way, at least it gives him the time. A bit, at least. 

And to be fair, Harry’s hair has been in an inexcusable state lately. He’d never be able to live with himself if he had the chance to do something about it and passed it up. 

Harry waits patiently, but the moment Louis’ done rinsing off for the second time, he crowds him up against the wall and kisses him with redoubled effort. 

“Bed,” he says against Louis’ mouth. “C’mon, take me to bed.” 

He doesn’t even bother pretending that he won’t. 

He herds Harry out of the shower, shutting it off with a flick of his wrist, and wraps one of the enormous white towels around both of them. “Dry my hair off properly or it’ll look stupid,” he tells Harry with a careful smile. 

Harry grins, and doesn’t bother, because he’s kissing Louis again, the towel falling to the floor as they stumble out of the toilet. 

Harry guides Louis onto the bed, and then crawls up after him, draping himself along his side. He doesn’t waste a moment before he’s kissing Louis again, and then moving down to his neck, biting and licking him in just the way to make Louis’ whole right side prick up in gooseflesh. 

Harry’s hands dance around his waist for a moment, but only just, before dipping down to circle his cock. His small fingers trail down to cup his balls, trace at his hole for a moment -- just long enough to make Louis gasp and buck -- before coming back to stroke him, slow and steady as the ocean, making Louis’ toes curl against the duvet. 

“Please,” Harry murmurs, the plea sounding strange coming out in Louis’ own lilting tone. “Let me fuck you, c’mon. Want it bad.” 

He gasps as Harry lets go of his cock, and then again a moment later when he feels a finger press into him, just a bit, just the first knuckle, the burn and stretch of it always a bit unsuspected. Harry’s mouth is sloppy on his neck, his free hand finding its way to Louis’ cock, and Louis’ so distracted by the sight of it -- his own small frame curled close, wanking him and prodding at his arsehole all at once -- that he almost forgets to answer, just assumes Harry will read it in the desperate way his spine is curving. 

“Only -- only you would want to fuck yourself this bad,” he pants out as Harry twists his wrist at the head of his dick. “So vain. Fuck.” 

Harry’s hips are working in circles against Louis’ thigh, but he whines in protest against his throat anyway. “No,” he says firmly, shaking his head against Louis’s skin. “You. Wanna fuck _you_ , Lou. 'S'always you.” 

It’s almost too much, then, the bare, shameless admission that Harry’s always known how to pull off so well, calibrated precisely to devastate Louis. 

Instead of _me too_ , he says, “yeah, all right,” and spreads his legs. 

There’s a thud as Harry scrambles to get to the bag next to the bed, fishing out a nearly-empty bottle of lube, but then he’s back at Louis’ side, biting softly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. 

“C’mon, do it,” Louis says hoarsely. 

Harry slides down him with a helpless sort of sound, kneeling between his knees and pressing his thighs open wider. He stares long enough that Louis isn’t sure if he should feel self-conscious -- he would, normally, except it’s Harry’s own cock he’s staring at so intently with that glassy, wanting expression. He runs his thumb over the tattoo on the crease of Louis’ hips, _might as well_ , and Louis is about to choke out a scolding noise, because he’s sure that despite whatever Harry says, he certainly doesn’t hate the idea of fucking his own self, but then Harry chokes out “ _Lou_ ,” so desperately that Louis isn’t sure who he’s seeing anymore. 

Harry slicks his hand carelessly, too busy trying to kiss the insides of Louis’ thighs to bother about not making a mess. It drips down his wrist, and Louis moves a hand to wipe it away, but then Harry’s suddenly got a finger inside him, and then another, and he forgets how to do anything other than bear down and groan as Harry takes him apart. 

It’s barely a minute before his hips are jerking off the mattress, willing Harry to give him more without making him ask for it. He’s got three fingers inside Louis now, twisting and spreading them like he knows exactly what this body wants, exactly what _Louis_ wants. 

The sight of it all is nearly too much on its own. Louis can see his own small body knelt between his legs, his own cock hard and dribbling wetness at the tip, and that’s -- it’s something. And then his new body, _Harry’s_ , all hard and soft at once, muscles and tattoos and narrow hips, familiar and foreign all at once. He’s not sure he knows, precisely, who’s who at the moment, but he knows they fit together, and he wants Harry inside him immediately. 

“Harry,” he says. “C’mon. Need to feel you.” 

He can’t even bother to feel embarrassed about it. It’s true. 

Harry nods, pulls out his fingers and rearranges himself, tugging Louis’ hips down the mattress and wrapping his legs around his waist. “Slow, yeah?” he asks, like he’s double-checking to make sure that’s still how Louis likes it. 

Louis can’t quite find his voice to answer, so he nods instead. Harry wraps his hand around his prick, lining it up with Louis’ body and sliding it into him so agonizingly slow that Louis almost regrets it, wishes he’d told him not to bother, to be quick about it. 

He thinks about it, now, but when their hips are finally flush, Louis feels so full up with -- with _all_ of it, with Harry’s cock and _Harry_ and the awful, sweet strangeness of it all -- he thinks if he tries to speak, it won’t be proper words that come out. 

And then Harry starts to move, rocking in slowly, steadily, and anything he might have said falls away anyway. 

It feels different, his own cock fucking into him instead of Harry’s. And it’s not -- it’s not like Harry’s the only one he’s ever had like this, so it isn’t just that the shape of his cock is different from the way it usually is. It’s something _else_ , the way he thinks he can almost feel it from both ends, twin sensations of Harry thrusting into him and clenching around him all at once. Maybe that’s mad, but then, this whole thing probably is, a bit. 

But it also feels so familiar, still so much the same thing he hasn’t let himself want in so long, the same thing that’s made him so stupid for Harry from the very start -- the way Harry fills up every inch of him, even when they’re not like this, even when it seems they’re so far apart they’re on opposite sides of the world. 

Harry’s under his skin, and not for the first time, Louis suspects it’s in a permanent sort of way. 

He finds his voice, then, and croaks out “harder.” He wants Harry to fuck him so hard he forgets to think at all. And Harry obeys, God, quickens the snap of his hips at the same time as he jerks his fist over Louis’ cock in earnest this time. 

Louis nearly shouts, and thinks if it’s possible to die from this, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. 

Harry fucks him steadily, the hand that’s not wanking Louis moving restlessly along his thighs and hips -- shifting Louis’ leg up, biting into the soft skin behind his knee with his fingernails, even carefully tracing at the place where his cock is disappearing into Louis’ stretched, slick hole. That alone makes Louis think he’ll come, and he whines, batting at Harry’s hand so he stops, because he’s not sure wants it to be over yet, and thinks he’s already so close he might not have a choice in the matter anyway. 

Harry takes his hand away, and then he shifts, leaning down so they’re pressed together, chest to chest, with just enough room between them for him to carry on jerking Louis off as he redoubles thrusting into him. Harry might be smaller in this borrowed frame, but Louis still feels suffocated by Harry, same as always, like he’s closing in on him from all sides. 

“Fuck,” Louis gasps. “Close, Haz, gonna--” 

“God, yeah. Please, c’mon, Lou. Please,” Harry begs, reaching his hand up to cradle Louis’ cheek before he leans in to kiss him. It’s sloppy, just a frantic press of his lips against Louis’, the stubble Louis hadn’t bothered to shave scraping at his cheek, but it’s somehow that out of everything that makes Louis feel like something is cracking wide open in his chest -- the way Harry’s still whimpering _please_ into his mouth even though he’s already got him. 

When Louis comes, it feels like it’s being yanked out of him, the bottom of his stomach falling away so suddenly that he has to squeeze his eyes shut. It lasts longer, too, and he wonders if that’s just _Harry_ , how it always is for him, frantic and sudden and almost too much. He hasn’t any clue, really, but he puts it out of his mind, because Harry’s still kissing him, and that’s all he can think about. 

Harry groans when Louis tightens around him as he comes, thrusting sloppy and erratic before he pulls out. Louis only spares a minute to feel sorry about the loss, because Harry’s face is furrowed up in concentration as he kneels and wanks himself, and a moment later, comes all over curve of Louis’ hip and his half-hard dick. 

He collapses next to Louis with an _oomph_ , sweaty and loose-limbed as ever, same as he always is after he comes. 

“You didn’t -- like,” Louis says, trying not to sound as if he’s pouting. Mostly he’s still just out of breath, so it comes out all right. 

Harry tilts his head at him curiously. 

“Like, in me,” Louis clarifies, turning his head to look up at the ceiling as he does. 

“Oh,” Harry says. He reaches over and passes a hand over Louis’ stomach gently, and smears a dribble of his own come in the process. “Wasn’t sure if you, like, wanted me to? Sorry.” 

Louis turns his head back, and smiles. “‘S’your arse, mate,” he says with a small breath of laughter, gesturing down at himself. 

Harry pulls a face, but smiles even as he’s grimacing. “Don’t be awful. God, this is truly weird,” he says, like he’s just now getting it. He’s still smiling, though, like it’s weird in the most mundane sort of way, like finding a sock you don’t recognize in your laundry. Like waking up in someone else’s body and then fucking them with it is par for the course. 

“I like weird, though,” Harry says after a moment. 

“What aren’t you more worried with how to fix this?” Louis asks him. It comes out wrong; he means to try and sound sharp, to scold Harry, to remind him to take this seriously. When he says it, though, it just sounds small and confused, a bit sad, the soft lilt to Harry’s voice making him think of things he’s tried so hard _not_ to for so long. 

Harry shifts next to him, hesitates for a moment and then reaches over to pull Louis tight against him. Louis thinks he should resist, just in the interest of self-preservation, because -- because whatever this is, it can’t last. Not the shagging, not the body-swapping, not the illusion that everything is just the way it should be. But he’s suddenly tired, and he can’t make himself. He lets himself go limp, instead, curling in his too-long limbs as best he can and pillowing his face on the curve of Harry’s chest, just below his collarbone. Louis runs his finger along the lines of his own tattoos, remembering the rattling sting of the needle from the days he’d spent getting them done. 

“Look,” Harry says slowly. “We’ll figure it out. Maybe we just need to like, go back to sleep or something. Maybe when we wake up tomorrow, everything’ll be back to normal.” 

Louis can’t help but laugh at that. He can’t remember the last time he’s woken up and things have been _more_ normal rather than less, not for years. That’s not how his life works anymore. And maybe this is just part of the natural progression of things -- waking up each day with one more thing about his own life he doesn’t recognize, and learning how to live with it. 

He tries to say it to Harry, but when he opens his mouth, he can’t quite manage. He smiles against Harry’s chest instead, kisses him just under the 78 inked there. “Think that works for hangovers,” he says lightly. “Dunno about waking up in the wrong body.” 

When he looks up, Harry is smiling at him, his own smile, crooked and open and so _Harry_ that it makes Louis’ chest clench with something sweet that he hasn’t felt in years. 

“You got a better idea, then?” Harry asks. 

He hasn’t, so he just shakes his head, gripping his fingers sharply against Harry’s hip. He wonders, for a moment, if they do wake up in the right bodies tomorrow, what would happen if he left bruises there now -- if he could leave them there on his own hip, and press on them once he’s back where he belongs, feel the lingering twin marks from him and Harry both -- Harry’s long fingers, his own impulse. 

“We’ll see tomorrow,” Harry says quietly. “We’ll lay about here for the rest of the day and not worry about it, and we’ll order food, and we’ll go to sleep. And if tomorrow we’re still… y’know. We’ll figure it out. Okay?” 

Louis isn’t sure he believes it’ll be that easy, but -- but he nods again, anyway. He wants it to be, anyway, and when Harry says it like that, it’s not so hard to push his doubts aside, just for a bit. Long enough to fall asleep with Harry’s arms around him, at least. 


End file.
